


The Order and The Crown

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Angst, Assassin Hermione Granger, F/M, Plots of Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: Hermione dedicates her life to The Crown - the people who trained her to become an assassin after her parents were killed. Harry Potter is her next mark, but little does she know how much her life is going to change after she spends one night with him.





	The Order and The Crown

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Harmony Shag-a-Thon event on the amazing Facebook group Harmony & Co. 
> 
> Muse of Apollo prompted this and I’m sure that it’s not what it was meant to be, but I loved the prompt - Hermione is the world’s best assassin but after she spends a night with Harry Potter, her world changes (paraphrased)
> 
> I own nothing recognizable from the Harry Potter franchise.

It’s four o’clock in the morning and the world is just waking up from its peaceful slumber, none the wiser to the devious antics that took place only moments ago. The stars still twinkle in the sky overhead as Hermione Granger sheaths her deadly blade inside of its leather holster on her back and scurries from the rooftop of a twelve story building in the middle of London.

 She’s down the stairs, through the emergency exit, and back on the ground faster than any drone might be able to find her. Trained for speed, she ducks through various shadows until she’s sprinting through the sewer system, even as the sound of sirens begin to wail several blocks away. 

A smile overtakes her features as her hands secure themselves around a thick, black, rung. She hoists herself onto the slippery ladder and up through the manhole cover overhead. Her eyes are the only thing visible to the dark backstreet as she peeks around to see if any eyes are watching. Satisfied that there are none, she slides the cover to the side and raises herself from the sewer and onto the street.

She scurries to the shadowed alley just across the way and ducks behind a large skip as blue and red emergency lights shine through the darkness. One or two bright lights break through the darkness of the alley and the only thing that moves is a burly old tabby cat that is tearing away at a take away container. Hermione waits another few beats and when the sirens are fading away, she slithers away into the night in the opposite direction.

When she slips into a shoddy old building with waterlogged flooring and chipped windows, her shoulders finally relax and her heartbeat starts to decrease. She stashes her weapons away in the front closet, hidden behind a multitude of colorful jumpers and various unused items like skis and an old boom box.

  
She pulls off her black attire, tight and leather so that she can move and breathe easy around London at night. In its place, she shoves on a pair of gray sweats and a ratty old tee-shirt with a logo for a company she’s never heard of. Her hair is pulled up into a loose bun with several stray curls falling over her neck. Finally, she’s comfortable, though not altogether relaxed.

“Miss Granger.” There’s a knock on her door not long after she’s home and heating up ramen on her stovetop. “Miss Granger, there’s a parcel for you.”

  
“It’s too early for the post, Seamus,” Hermione calls out from the kitchen as she pokes at the hard noodles. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but now’s really not the best time.”

She still has blood spatter on her face, she is sure of it. That will take some deep cleaning to remove and she only ever handled that in her _other_ residence. Not the residence of convenience.

“Hermione.” Seamus sounds nervous, his Irish brogue deepening the more he tries to get her attention. “I know you said not to bother you unless it’s urgent, but if you could just –”

Hermione swings the door open, nearly pulling it from its weak hinges, and watches as Seamus jumps backward from fright. He laughs, a nervous titter, and thrusts a small orange envelop in her direction with a small, chipped-tooth smile.

“ _This_ couldn’t wait until daylight?”  Hermione raises a brow and flips the envelope around in her hand. It’s weighty, not marked like the others she’s had this month.

“The Order of the Phoenix is moving soon.” Seamus tells her seriously. His blue eyes catch on the soft yellow light from inside her flat and it creates an eerie green tint. “They say Code Word Dumbledore is set to go.”

  
Hermione narrows her eyes and keeps her face from reacting with the worry that suddenly ropes around her heart. The Order of the Phoenix isn’t supposed to be moving on Code Word Dumbledore for weeks. All of her intelligence suggests that it might not even be ready then. There’s so much to do before they launch and Hermione’s not sure that she’s fully prepared.  

“Thanks, Seamus,” she says as her finger toys with a loose piece of the envelope. Hermione shuts the door in his face and walks over to where her ramen has boiled over. “Bugger it.”

Once the stove is off and she’s sure that the police aren’t still roaming the streets looking for her description, Hermione walks out the front door of her tiny flat and finds the nearest alleyway to the right. Locked up tight with a thick, rusted chain is Crookshanks. Its bright orange lines and glossy black frame shines under the hot sun. Hermione reaches down and picks the shabby old lock and pulls her helmet out from the seat compartment. She kicks her leg over the side and then the engine purrs to life.

She takes off like a shot through the streets, squeezing between pretentious cars and cabs alike. When she’s around St. Paul’s, she takes a roundabout twice and swings down a side street where she locks Crookshanks up tight again. Hermione pulls off her helmet and her wavy hair cascades down her back as she shakes it free. Her other residence is only a short walk away and she makes it with her hands shoved into a leather bomber jacket and her chin tucked down.

When she enters the glass double doors, she’s greeted by the reception – Pansy Parkinson, a trusted liaison she was provided by her employer. Parkinson greets her eagerly and walks with her to the lift detailing all of the things she’s missed in the past twenty four hours. Hermione does her part to act interested, but really she’s tired and she’s one hundred percent sure there’s still dried blood on her hands.

“Parkinson,” Hermione stops the woman and presses the up button for the lift. “No visitors tonight, alright?”

“Right.” Pansy smiles and nods and catches a hint – _thank Christ_ – and turns around. Hermione watches her hips sway as she makes her way back to the front desk.

Her penthouse isn’t marked on the lift listing and so when the lift stops at the top most level, she has to get out and take the stairs up to the entryway door. When she opens the door, she’s greeted with the most delicious vanilla aroma and white, pristine walls. Her employer pays to keep her happy and this penthouse does just that. It’s spacious – one of the most spacious in this district – and overlooks the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral along with the best of central London’s skyline. From here, she can see every vantage point of the city.

It pays to be the world’s most skilled assassin.

After the fiasco that was her burnt ramen breakfast, Hermione calls in room service and waits for it to arrive. It isn’t until she’s dining on the very finest that London has to offer that she finally pulls out the envelope that she’d shoved into her jacket pocket and reads her next mission.

_The Order of the Phoenix is prepared to make its move against The Crown. Harry Potter must die._

Hermione sucks in a breath. She wasn’t even certain the enigmatic Harry Potter was real until he became her mark all those months ago. All she knew of him then was that he’s one of the Order of the Phoenix’s most skilled commanders. He’s responsible for some of the most important strikes against The Crown, including the death of one of their most beloved generals, Percy Weasley. 

A pile of photos falls onto the table and she picks them up carefully to study each one. The first is Harry Potter – a rare, up close photograph. She’s never quite looked upon his face with such clarity looking back at her. Everything they’ve had up to this point is provided by CC TV and is incredibly pixelated. But what she finds staring back at her now is anything but. The sharp curve of his jaw, bright green eyes, cheekbones that hold the faintest of a golden hue, and fly-away raven hair that falls haphazardly over this forehead where there is an interesting sort of lightning shaped scar peeking through.

Dare she say it, but this bloke is handsome. 

He isn’t her typical mark, either. His rare appearances in public have made it difficult for her to hunt him down in the night, as is her preference. Instead, she’s had to be clever, cunning, and seductive. A man like this, so shut out from the world, preens under attention and then when she gets him alone…

Hermione flicks through the other photos and studies them closely. Potter doesn’t mind hard work; there are a series of photos that detail him lifting and shifting several crates from the back of a lorry. The bulge of his bicep strains against the cotton of his shirt. The sinew of his back is practically visible through the fabric as well. He’s very fit and not at all what she’d been expecting. 

The next photo shows an unruly head of dark hair perched atop a dapper suit. His fingers clasp around silver cufflinks. His face is turned over his shoulder and the planes of his cheeks are sharp and edged with the barest dusting of stubble. There are secrets in his eyes, almost calculating in nature. She examines the background of the photo, though mildly blurry she can make out the decorative interior of a place she knows well; St. Paul’s Cathedral.

She remembers seeing him there. The night flies through her mind, like she’d catalogued every interaction she had. A charity event. Her mark was Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Order was tipped off that she was coming for them and so they set a trap for her. Oh, but those high and mighty Order members had no idea they were facing the Deadliest Assassin of the Age – The Daily Prophet’s tagline, not hers. 

She killed Kingsley in the tombs and then she snuck out through one of the secret tunnels below the cathedral. The Order called it a painful blow. Hermione’s employer called it inspired. 

But he’d been there. Harry Potter had been watching her all evening, had offered her a smile as she approached the bar and ordered a mixed drink. At the time, Hermione believed him to be just a wealthy benefactor of the evening, like Draco Malfoy or Neville Longbottom. It doesn’t change anything, of course. Now that she knows exactly who Potter is, it makes it easier to hunt him down and strike this critical blow for The Crown. She’ll just have a little bit of fun with him before she does.

Behind the photos is a news clipping. The Mayor’s Thames Festival. The largest art festival in London. There will be so many people, so many opportunities. Hermione smiles down at the grayish clipping and begins making her plans.

She walks over to her rotary phone – a personal preference – and dials out to the only number it will allow. 

“Tomorrow,” she says resolutely as soon as someone answers the other end. 

“Good.” The voice is distorted so that she can’t make out the person it belongs to. “Everything rests on your shoulders. Don’t fuck it up. You’ll never get the truth otherwise.”

  


 

Five outfits lie on top of the plush duvet of her bed and she tosses another onto it with a frustrated sigh. She doesn’t want to appear that she’s trying too hard. There’s one skirt, a long, tight black thing that has a slit all the way up to the hip, and that’s the closest she thinks she’ll get to comfort. But still, it’s not perfect enough to slay the Boy Who Lived in. She needs something that won’t restrict her movements in case she needs to make a fast getaway. 

After hours of searching and planning, Hermione decides on dark denim, form-fitting trousers that hug every single curve and edge she has and sit on her hips just over the line of her underwear. A black halter that stops at her ribcage is covered by a thick, long-sleeved leather jacket. It falls just shy of the halter and leaves the expanse of her stomach on display. She lets her curls fly free, over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back. Her feet are encased in black boots with black laces and black buckles. There’s a theme to her wardrobe – a cliché among her tribe.  

The walk to the Thames is a short one and the pavement is already lined with various booths for artwork and random people doing impromptu theater on the streets. She grabs a bite from a local vendor truck and moves through the crowd with ease. There’s no telling where Potter will be, but she has an inkling that he’ll be close to the bridge. All of their intelligence suggests that Potter enjoys sport and where better to view the boat races than from the bridge?

It takes her a short while to find him. He’s leaning with his elbows against the railing that blocks off the river. He’s watching the festivities closely, eyes flickering between the faces that pass him by. She briefly wonders if he knows she’s coming for him and if he’s trying to determine who she is – something no one has been able to suss out in all her years as an assassin.

Perhaps she’s overly confident, but Hermione thinks this will be an easy hit. A crowd of people, an unsuspecting mark, and police looking everywhere but at her. Simple.

“Candy floss for the lady?” A man whose hands are filled with pink and blue fluffy confections passes her by with a toothy grin on his face. She shakes her head at him, a small smile of her own as she sits on a bench across from Potter.

Her chin is pointed away from him, but she tries to watch him in her peripheral vision. He’s almost stock-still with his ankles crossed. The physical representation of ease within a crowd of excitement. His eyes glide over to her and she snaps her gaze to the river and holds her breath. She’s not sure when it’s okay to look at him again and she’s thankful when another vendor walks past her and gives her a reason to glance in his direction.

She reaches into her pocket to pull out a few notes. “How much for a brew?” 

The man makes a show of pulling a bottle from his cooler. “Four quid, love.”

“Je– _sus_ ,” Hermione mutters as she counts out the notes in her hand. “Theft is what it is.”

“Got to make a living. Here ya go.” He shoves the bottle into her hand and all but rips the money from her.

As he walks away, she glances up and Potter’s eyes are on her. He’s got the curve of a smirk on his face and she forces herself to appear demure. Smiles back at him. Bats her eyelashes. Pulls the top off her beverage and makes a show of placing the lip of the bottle against her mouth. She swallows the bitter liquid slowly and allows just a drop or two to drip from the corner of her mouth down her chin. Hermione rubs it down her chin and exposes her long neck to him. Her eyes dance as he pushes away from the railing and joins her at the bench.

“You must be desperate for a drink to pay four quid for bottled piss.” He’s not looking at her as he settles back and places his arm around the back of her shoulders. His ankle rests on his knee. How is he so relaxed? She’s poised, ready, coiled like a spring. 

She laughs anyway and takes another drink. “I’m desperate for a lot of things these days,” she lies and watches the way his eyes flash dark. Too easy. Hermione holds the tip of the bottle towards him and smiles around a “cheers.” 

Harry’s eyes, a brilliant green color that catches the various lights of the city, dart around the crowd as he shoves his hands into his coat pockets. They sit in comfortable silence for several moments. The city thumps around them, laughter and joy ring through the streets. Hermione hasn’t ever seen London so alive and so colorful. She wishes she could enjoy it just a little longer. But then she catches a flash of red light and follows its thin shine from rooftops to windows.

The Crown is here. And Harry Potter sits beside her without any worry about being discovered. Hermione is fascinated; he seems so at ease, so calm as needle-thin laser lights dance between various targets. Like they can’t decide where to land. She has to make her move and she has to do it quickly. But, you can’t kill a famous figurehead in the middle of a festival on the packed streets of London.

No. She has to get him out of there. Somewhere private.

“Big art fan?” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye and she offers him a small smile.

“Not really.” Hermione crosses her legs and maintains his eye contact. She’s desperate to see where the laser light has landed, but she can’t afford to lose his attention right now. “But the Thames is beautiful when it’s lit up with fireworks. And I desperately crave candy floss.” 

It’s a lie. Her parents were dentists. She’d sooner cleave a pound of flesh away before sticking that sugary monstrosity into her mouth. But, the lie earns her a chuckle and a smile and so it’s worth the roil in her stomach.

“I’ve never watched the fireworks over the Thames,” he admits, eyes finally leaving hers to glance at the river.

She darts her gaze around and spots the little red light on a random trolley. What the fuck are they aiming at? Hermione schools her features by the time Harry’s eyes land on her again. She smiles demurely. 

His hand stops a vendor as he passes by and Harry scoops a large, fluffy cloud of candy floss from the trolley. 

_Shit._

It’s in her hands before she can say ‘no, thanks’ and his eyes are on her steadily until she plucks a pathetic wisp of blue from the poofy candy and sticks it in her mouth. It takes every ounce of willpower she has not to gag. She swallows it quickly and places the biggest forced smile on her face.

“My god,” she groans as she closes her eyes and licks the tip of her finger, “so good. Thank you.”

Beer and candy floss? Awful combination. But she fakes it until he’s smiling at her. His eyes are watching the way her tongue swipes at the sticky sugar on her finger. He’s all hers, she thinks, as she sticks the candy cloud out toward him in offering. It’s obscene, the massive chunk he pulls from it and pops it into his mouth in one bite. Hermione blinks, sure she’s never witnessed such a thing in her life, and then she laughs - an honest to god, loud laugh that makes her belly ache and her ears ring. 

With his mouth still full of the dissolving candy floss, Harry turns to her with a massive grin. “Hm. It’s not really as good as you think it is. Way too sugary. Want to get out of here?” 

She levels him with a glance. “You’ve never eaten candy floss?”

His dark hair shakes along with his head. “My adoptive parents spared me no luxury, I’m afraid.”

“Adoptive parents?”

“My parents were killed by The Crown.”

He allows the words to settle between them and peers at her out of the corner of his eye. A seriousness has fallen over him as his grin falls into a strict line. She bites the edges of her tongue to keep from reacting. Her fingers flex toward the knife hidden at her hip. Perhaps he knows exactly who she is. Who else would be so earnest about their life to a complete stranger, but someone who is about to dispose of said stranger? But the next second, he laughs derisively and pushes the chunk of flyaway hair out of his eyes. 

“My parents were dentists,” she says as she pops another piece of the disgusting candy into her mouth with a small smile.    

Keep it vague, keep it light. Hermione gnaws on her cheek and stands up from the bench. He follows suit without missing a beat, even as she starts to lead him down the crowded pavement. He stays by her side, his eyes never swaying from ahead of him. Hermione, however, looks everywhere. Constant awareness of her surroundings has created an anxiety within her if she doesn’t have a clear exit strategy. Through alleys, down sewers, over trolleys, plowing down people; there is always a way out. 

“ _Were_ dentists?” Harry stands on the outside like a gentleman and places his hand on her lower back to guide her out of the way of a skateboarder. She tenses and he must feel it because he adds quickly, “you don’t have to talk about it with me.”

Hermione stuffs her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, ducks her head and turns down an alleyway toward Saint Paul’s. They’re immediately drenched in darkness, the only light is from the festivities still raging on behind them. She hasn’t talked about her parents since the night they were murdered so many  years ago. In fact, in the years that followed, Hermione spent every waking moment preparing to avenge their deaths. 

“They’re not dentists anymore,” she says quietly as they emerge out of the opposite end of the alley. It’s not a lie, not really. She’s certainly not ready to confide in Harry Potter – the bloke she’s meant to kill by the end of the night. “I mean, everyone has to retire sometime, right?”

They step out into the lamp lit lights of London standing closer to one another than they were before. His hand hasn’t left the small of her back and her elbow bumps against his side every other step. 

“Where are we headed, by the way?” His voice is softer now and she wonders if he knows she’s lying about her parents. She chooses to ignore that he might. “And maybe you wouldn’t mind telling me your name?”

“Do you make a habit of walking the dark streets of London with strange women, Harry Potter?” Hermione smiles at him when his steps pause.

He considers her for a full minute. Eyes run over the curves of her face before finally stopping to gaze into hers. “Do you believe yourself to be a strange woman, Hermione Granger?”

It’s her turn to be stunned and even as he starts to walk again, she stays behind and stares at him. He doesn’t glance back, doesn’t pause for the stoplight at the crosswalk. The words crash over her again and again. He knows who she is; Harry Potter knows her. Does he know what she does, what she’s done, what she’s capable of doing? Or, perhaps he spent an awful lot of time learning about her after the several months they’ve spent running into one another at various events around the city. Never once talking, but always gravitating toward one another.

Hermione shakes her head, clears her thoughts, and sprints to his side once again. She finds him chuckling as her heavy steps fall in line to his. Her hands are no longer in the pockets of her jacket but instead clenched at her sides. 

“You know who I am?” Her eyebrows are raised as she tries to keep pace with him.

“You know who I am?” He counters with a cheeky smirk. When they come to a crosswalk, he pauses to let her lead. “I assume we’re heading to yours?” 

“Sure you don’t know where that is?” 

What she doesn’t expect is for him to walk faster and in the right direction.

“You _do_ know where I live, then!”

Hermione has to walk quickly to keep up with his long strides. She’s not looking where she’s going and instead is coming perilously close to running into street lamps and passersby. Harry steers her here and there with his hand back onto her back. She thinks about how strange it is to be like a magnet to someone else, but they attract so easily, fitting to one another without questioning it.

Killing him is going to be one of the moments she regrets, she thinks. But, she’s starting to wonder if he isn’t meant to kill her, too. An agent for The Order, it isn’t far off what she’d expect of them.

They’re in front of her building quicker than she realized. The glass and gold-trimmed doors open for her and she steps into the familiar warmth of the lobby. Parkinson is standing at the reception desk, her short black bob whips around her face when she does a double take at who walked through her door. Her lips pinch and she narrows her eyes as Hermione tries to tell her, silently, to knock it the fuck off. Pansy’s eyes descend, however, and see Harry’s hand curled around her hip. Hermione smiles as she passes and doesn’t say a word as she presses the ‘up’ button on the lift.

“Floor?” Harry asks with his fingers ready to press the button. It hovers over the topmost floor and Hermione stares at him warily. 

How much does this bloke know?

“Go ahead, then,” she allows him, tipping her chin at the panel of numbers. “Show off.”

He laughs and presses the topmost button of the panel and wears a cheeky, proud smile as he glances down at her. Hermione leans against the wall of the lift with her hands behind her back, her fingers playing with the cold silver handle of her knife. Maybe she’ll kill him here, leave a mess, and flee London in the night.

The door chimes and opens as another tenant walks in. Harry backs away from the sliding doors and stands impossibly close to her. She didn’t catch his scent while they were walking the streets of London but now, up close, in a confined area, she’s heady from the cedar scent that clings to him. She jumps as something grazes her hip and glances down to see Harry’s hand toying with the band of her denims.

Her eyes are wide and gazing up at him, but he’s not even bothering to look at her. As the lift moves up and up the building, so does Harry’s hand move down and around to her bum. Well, she certainly knows what he’s coming to her penthouse for, and it’s definitely not murder. Hermione decides to toy with him before getting him back to her room and well, taking an opposing approach to their night together. She pushes back against his hand and tries not to smirk at the way his breathing catches in his chest.

  
The door chimes again and their audience leaves the lift, none the wiser to their antics.

Before she realizes what is happening, his hands are wrapped in her hair and his body is pressing her into the wall of the lift. She squeaks out a breath and then Harry’s lips are on hers. The cold knife in the band of her trousers pushes up against her back just as his knee pushes her thighs apart. He deepens the kiss immediately and swallows the noise that leaves her throat.

God, she really wishes this night doesn’t have to end the way it does. Hermione can kiss him forever. The way his tongue rolls against hers, drags out an unwilling moan from her mouth – it’s sinful.

The lift stops. The door dings. And he’s off of her in a hot second. Harry’s hand finds hers and he leads her into the hallway, but then pauses. She smirks at him as his eyes glance down at her. His face is flushed and his lips rosy red. But his eyes only have a sliver of the bright green she’d been courting all evening, and instead the pupils are blown wide.

“What’s the matter, Potter? Lost your way?” Hermione grins at him as he lifts his head and reads the numbers on the doors. “Not sure where you’re going?”

“Where’s your penthouse?” His voice is a raspy growl and his fingers tighten around hers. 

She tugs on his hand and steers him toward the staircase that’s hidden behind a door. If he’s surprised that there’s another floor, he doesn’t let it show. Instead he follows after her with his hands touching any place he can find as she leads him up and up to her hidden home. When they make it to the door, he doesn’t even allow her to open it. He presses her against the door and steals another heated kiss with his body against hers.

Hermione can melt into him, if she’d let herself. But her mind is whirring constantly.  She has a job to do, he’s next on her list, and she can’t ignore her employer. She’s merely biding her time until he’s comfortable and then she’ll do it. But, her knees are weak as his tongue swipes hers and his hands wrap to the base of her skull and tilt her chin so that he has deeper access to her mouth. The evidence of his arousal presses against her thigh.

Perhaps she can have a moment with him. Just a single taste of him.

“Open the door,” Harry breathes as he kisses a path to her ear. His teeth tug on her earlobe before she spins around and fumbles with the door key that’s shoved into the tight pocket of her trousers. “God, these jeans are so tight, and that arse –“

She turns the knob in her hands and they stumble through the door with his hands on her arse. He stops her from falling to the floor with quick reflexes and pulls her around to face him by the curves of her hips. She crashes against him and their lips meet again. 

This isn’t going to stop and she needs to get rid of the weapons she has hidden on her person. Nothing kills the mood quite like having to admit that your about-to-be-lover is actually the target of the night’s plot to take down The Order. As he presses her for more, she backs slowly through her penthouse, bumping into furniture along the way, until she reaches her room. 

Harry’s hands start to unbutton her jeans, but she stops him with a sultry smile and slight tsk. Hermione places a hand on his hard chest – crikey, she’s going to enjoy this – and pushes him a step back so that she can undress herself – and take care of the plethora of weaponry hidden in her wardrobe. Her heavy lidded eyes hold his gaze as her fingers trail from his chest and find the top button of her trousers.

“Quickly,” he whispers, tongue swiping slowly across his bottom lip.

“Impatient?” She teases as she ignores the button of her trousers and instead bends forward to remove the boots off her feet. She likes the noise he makes in the back of his throat. The knife hidden against her ankle is slipped into the toe of her boot as she glances up to catch his eyes. They flash and she smiles. “You know, if you can’t wait to –“

She never got to finish her sentence, though, because Harry wraps his hands into her hair, pulls roughly at the roots, and lets his lips slip over hers in a possessive display of dominance. He really is impatient, and before she knows it her trousers are on the ground, her jacket falls from her shoulders, and her halter top is untied and floating to the ground between them. The heavy thud of her knives go entirely over Harry’s head and she kicks them just under the bed so that he won’t see them before she’s ready to use them.

Harry drags his shirt over his head and kicks off his trousers before she can even blink. She’s lying back on the bed and he’s between her legs in another moment. Time is moving so fast and he’s so eager that the second his tongue swipes at her, she’s immediately calling out his name. His hands hold onto the meat of her thighs and hold her in place and she’s forced to take the onslaught of his tongue without bucking against his face like all her instincts scream at her to do.  

He slips a finger inside of her and Hermione’s entire body jerks. She can feel his smile against her and can’t help but plead for him to please, please give her more and give her that sweet relief.

But he pulls his mouth away and he crawls up her body. There’s a smile planted firmly on his face and he wastes no time sheathing himself inside of her. The noise that leaves her – caught between a moan and his name – mingles with the sheer feral sound that rips from his lips.

“Feels. So. Good.” He grounds out between thrusts.

  
Her nails drag along his back and spurs him on to go faster, harder. She’s not even sure what thoughts are going through her head, just silently begging for him to keep moving, never stop, right there – there – there. Her hips roll against his movements and within moments, the tightly wound coil inside of her snaps and she breaks for him, calling out his name and digging her nails into his skin. He rides through her orgasm, moves wraps his forearms around her head, and thrusts erratically until he, too, finds his release with a throaty groan in her ear.

“That was…” he whispers hoarsely as he rolls off her body and onto his back.

“Yeah.” She’s lost in that post-coital bliss, stars bursting behind her eyes as Hermione catches her breath and breathes out a laugh. “I feel like we’ve been dancing around that for months.”

He laughs. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you at Saint Paul’s.” 

It takes her by surprise to hear. Of course they’d watched each other all night, but Hermione never really suspected that they might one day end up here. And here, wherever it is, is nowhere near how she’d imagine ever getting rid of one of her marks. 

She is so in over her head.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she says breathlessly as she wraps a sheet around her and stands from the bed. “Just want to clean up. Don’t leave?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” When she leaves him to hit the loo, he’s lying on her bed with his hands behind his head, eyes clothes, and hair an absolute disaster.

There’s a choice to make and she’s not sure what to do. Stabbing him is far too impersonal for what they’ve just done. A gun is far too messy and she doesn’t think she can pull the trigger and look into his eyes. Poison, perhaps, is the least personal, not as messy, and she can have it done quickly and quietly without having to see his blood covering everything in her home.

God, but can she do it? She’d fucked up big time.

Hermione looks into the mirror and stares at her reflection. Her frizzy hair is bigger than she ever remembers seeing it before. Makeup is smudged under her eyes and around her lips. She’s a hot mess, but she’s never felt so completely sated. And he’s really lovely. How he managed to get on the Hit List of The Crown, she’ll never know.

She spends some time fixing her smudged make up and detangling her hair. Building up the nerve to kill the bloke who just gave her a mind altering orgasm isn’t exactly easy. It takes several minutes for her breathing to calm and for her nerves to stay. And when she leaves the loo, the hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end. 

He’s standing with his back to her, facing out the ceiling to floor window of her bedroom. There’s a glock in his hand, resting gently against the wrist of his opposite hand at his back. She thinks she probably should have known this was coming, but then, perhaps he’s been compromising her all along. 

“So, this is how it ends?” She asks finally, stepping into the room with one hand holding up the sheet draped over her body and another crossed over her stomach.

“This is how it was always meant to end,” he answers her softly but still doesn’t turn around. “You being who you are, me being who I am.”

The hand curled around her stomach falls uselessly to the side. She makes a vain attempt to turn the tables, but knows that it ends like this, it ends now. “Would you like some tea before you—”

He turns then and his eyes are so green that the they flash in the darkness of the room. The moonlight shines in behind him and casts the most beautiful, ethereal glow around him. In another life, perhaps, there could be beauty in what they could have. But then, Hermione knows – so desperately and heartbreakingly – that this life is the only they have and they must play with the cards they’re dealt.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve wanted this since I first saw you.” Harry’s eyes are so earnest, willing her to believe him, that she almost does. Instead, a derisive laugh leaves her. “It’s true. Until tonight, when I learned what you’ve been tasked to do, I fancied asking you out the next time I saw you.”

“Could you imagine?” She laughs fully this time and takes a step towards him slowly. “The Savior of The Order and The Assassin of The Crown, eating curry at a hole in the wall restaurant?”

“Absurd.” He smirks around the word and watches her draw closer still. The conflict in his eyes can’t hide and she wonders how he ever made it in this world with such candor. “The Crown would never allow anything of the sort.”

“Never. Blasphemy,” she jokes, but then grows quite serious because there’s a gun aimed at her and if she’s to die, she has to know. “About tonight, with Dumbledore…”

“Code Word Dumbledore is a ruse.” But of course he’s being open because he’s about to kill her. “Tom Riddle has the royal family wrapped so closely around his finger that any small movement against them makes him act recklessly. And he’s terrified of Albus Dumbledore.”

“Albus Dumbledore is dead,” Hermione reminds him. It wasn’t her kill, but someone had taken him out.

“Sometimes the fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.” Harry smiles wryly.

“The lasers tonight,” Hermione realizes suddenly, gasping and covering her mouth. “That was Riddle, looking for Dumbledore?” 

His shaggy head of black hair nods. “We hoped it would pull Riddle out from wherever he’s hiding. Hopefully, somewhere out there, he’s been apprehended by The Order.”

“And instead of being there to do it, you’re here with me because –“

There’s a foot separating them now. The gun is between them, aimed at her, but her eyes don’t stray from him. She wonders if he can do it – God knows she couldn’t now.

“Pretty girl at a festival all on her own?” He shrugs. “I’m not allowed to be the one to confront Riddle due to our… history.”

“Riddle killed your parents.” As soon as the thought enters her mind, she knows it to be true. He doesn’t even bother to tell her she’s right. “That’s why you’re so dedicated to The Order. But then, why does The Crown want _you_ dead?”

“You don’t know?” He blinks. Clearly she’s shocked him. “The Crown thinks that I’m a threat. They think I’m mad, that I’ll usurp Riddle and take them over.”

“They never said –”

“You never asked?” Harry’s brow furrows, a deep notch between them. “Have they told you anything at all?”

It hits her hard in the gut. She’d never been told. She never asked. Hermione has been out for retribution for so long, she forgot that there are actual politics happening with every move one of these groups make toward one another.

“We wondered…” Harry trails off and pushes a large chunk of chaotic hair from his forehead. He sighs and hesitates, like he’s not sure he should divulge what he’s thinking. “We thought you knew – we know all about you, Hermione Granger – but then I suppose it’s like The Crown to keep their secrets if it means they can control their assets.” 

“What secrets?”

  
There’s something roiling in her gut now and it feels massive. Her breathing comes out in short bursts and she’s sure that she’s going to throw up before Harry has the chance to kill her. She wishes he’d put the gun down, give her a chance to think. Part of her considers trying to fight him now, fight for her life and do what she’s being paid to do.

“The Order never killed your parents, Hermione.” And then the truth tumbles from his lips. “The Crown killed your parents.”

And instead of fighting, Hermione crumbles to the ground.

  


 

Hermione can’t see anything until the black sack covering her head is lifted. Her surroundings resemble a gutted warehouse; cement walls, luminescent yellow lights. There are tables lined everywhere with weapons lying upon them. Small groups of people cluster together and whisper to one another as they sneak glances in her direction. Harry’s hand is on the small of her back as he guides her through a small pathway to a room enclosed behind a thick, wooden door.

She’s face to face with the notorious and fierce Molly Weasley and the Wolf himself, Remus Lupin. Chances are, they’ve wanted her dead for a very long time, and neither look very happy to see her standing before them.

“Hermione Granger,” Remus greets her strictly and nods his head at the chair across from him.

“Lupin.” She pulls out the chair and sits down with her hands in her lap. It’s strange, not having a weapon on her person, no form of self-defense. But Harry promised that she’d be safe here, that he’d speak for her, and she’d be safe. She hopes he knows his cohorts as well as he thinks he does.

“Hermione has been lied to by The Crown for her entire life,” Harry tells them as his hand curls around her shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles into the tense muscles. “She didn’t know about her parents until tonight and she wants to know more.” 

“It comes at a price.” Molly Weasley is a beautiful, dangerous woman. Her brown eyes glint as they catch the florescent lights above her. “We do not trust you. We cannot offer you sanctuary. But we can certainly use your... talents.”

She knows that this could still end in her death. If she moves the wrong way, if she steps out of line, The Order will not hesitate to remove her from their radar. She has to play by their rules and she will have to work very hard to earn their trust. But she’d done it once with The Crown – The Order would be no different.

She takes a deep breath, glances up at Harry who squeezes her shoulder, and then finds Molly’s eyes with the sort of strength that would have made her mother proud.

“I will help The Order however I can.”

She has a score to settle.

  
There is blood to be repaid.

Hermione Granger will kill Tom Riddle if it’s the last thing she ever does.

**Author's Note:**

> I owe all of my thanks and probably a shit ton of chocolate and cookies to the following loves, without whom this story wouldn’t be here: Pronunciation_Hermy_One, AlexandraO, and Muse of Apollo. Thank you for all the sprints, the cheerleading, listening to me cry and stomp around and flail... and for encouraging me not to give up on this story. I appreciate you all! <3 
> 
> Special shout out to Elle Morgan-Black, specifically, for a wonderfully insightful alpha job early on in this story and for keeping me from scrapping it altogether.


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